


The Captain's Duty

by jaradel



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Angst, Emotionally Constipated Hockey Players, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Jack is fluent in Québécois and ANGST, Missing Scene, Pre-Slash, Remix, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-08
Updated: 2016-03-08
Packaged: 2018-05-25 11:25:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6193168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaradel/pseuds/jaradel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A remix of <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/UrbanHymnal">UrbanHymnal</a>'s fic, <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/5871613">The Solemn Duty of Bros</a>. The aftermath of Bitty's concussion in Year One, told from Jack's POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Captain's Duty

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Solemn Duty of Bros](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5871613) by [UrbanHymnal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/UrbanHymnal/pseuds/UrbanHymnal). 



> Disclaimer: Characters belong to [Ngozi](http://ngoziu.tumblr.com), creator of the web comic [Check, Please!](http://omgcheckplease.tumblr.com)
> 
> Dialogue (except for the first conversation) written by UrbanHymnal from her fic. Many thanks to Urban for allowing me to remix her wonderful story! If you haven't read hers, I strongly encourage you to do so.
> 
> Check out the wonderful fanart that pawspaintsnthings drew for Urban's fic [here](http://pawspaintsnthings.tumblr.com/post/138453740641/part-of-a-missing-scene-collab-i-did-with)!
> 
> Beta'ed by the lovely and talented [mistyzeo](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mistyzeo). Thank you dear!
> 
> I used hovertext for the French in the story, but translations are also provided at the end. Any mistakes in the French are my own.

_“Bitty.”_  

Jack freezes as Bitty goes airborne, sailing over Spencer’s back and crashing hard on the ice with a sickening thud, his helmet popping off of his head and bouncing behind the net. He can see it happening and yet he is rooted to the spot, the puck he’d sent sailing toward the net forgotten. 

Jack had told Bitty that he had his back, that it would be okay. But Bitty isn’t moving, and _mon Dieu_ , Jack didn’t realize how very small he is until he sees Bitty’s crumpled form behind the net. The ref blows the whistle, and for Jack it’s like the starting gun of a race. He’s off like a shot, barreling toward Spencer and slamming him into the boards. Jack can hardly believe what he is doing – he’s the captain, he doesn’t start fights – but seeing Bitty so still on the ice triggers an overwhelming feeling of anger, and he couldn’t stop himself if he tried. By the time the refs break up the fight, which has turned into an all-out brawl, Bitty is gone. 

Jack is sent to the penalty box with a large purple bruise spreading across his cheekbone where Spencer caught him in the face with his stick. The game ends soon after, but it’s worth it. _No one hurts Bitty on my watch._ It is a visceral feeling, and he doesn’t even think to question why he feels this way about Bitty, who has confounded (and sometimes infuriated) him since day one. 

Jack trudges back to the locker room with the rest of the team, who, in spite of winning the game, are deathly silent. Shitty, who can always read him even when Jack wishes he couldn’t, grips his shoulder. “Bitty’s gonna be alright, Jack. Little fucker’s tougher than you think.” 

Jack nods, but when he enters the locker room and doesn’t immediately see Bitty sitting there, worry creeps back in. “Did you see him leave the ice?” he asks. 

“Yeah brah, that’s what I’m trying to tell ya. He skated off. He’ll be fine.” 

Jack wishes he had Shitty’s level of confidence. He finds it hard to believe that Bitty will be alright after landing on the ice headfirst. He sits down in front of his stall and unlaces his skates. The locker room, usually noisy even after a loss, is uncomfortably quiet. The few conversations he can hear are in hushed whispers. Jack pulls off his skates and the rest of his gear, dropping everything on the floor and getting dressed as if on autopilot. The adrenaline rush of the game and the fight seep out of him, leaving him with a bone-weary exhaustion, while his boundless capacity for anxiety and worry kicks into overdrive. 

“Something happen?” 

The sound of Bitty’s voice loosens something in Jack’s chest as he hears the freshman entering the locker room. “See? Told you, man,” he hears Ransom say, presumably to Holster. Shitty crows enthusiastically. “Look at this tough fucker. Look at him. Fucking amazing. Not even that thug Spencer can take him out. They make ‘em tough in the South.” Jack turns to look, seeing Shitty with his arm around Bitty’s shoulders, and briefly makes eye contact with him. Bitty is bruised and battered, but whole. He looks away, fearful that his face may have already betrayed him, and finishes tying his shoes. 

“What on earth?” he hears Bitty say. He forces himself not to look up, but he knows Bitty probably saw the bruise on his cheek, as well as everyone else’s bruises and cuts. 

“What? You thought we wouldn’t get your back?” Shitty says indignantly. 

“No! I just. Oh lord, y’all didn’t have to get into a fight. You aren’t even supposed to do that.” Jack can hear the quaver in Bitty’s voice. _Don’t look up. Don’t look up. Don’t look up._  

“What’d they say?” Lardo asks Bitty.  

“Concussion,” Bitty replies. “I’m fine. Just a mild one.” 

Jack can keep silent no longer. “No such thing as a mild concussion, Bittle,” he says, the words coming out harsher than he means them to, and mentally he kicks himself even as he feels the anger from earlier surging back. He’s not mad at _Bitty_ , though; he’s mad at _himself_ , for convincing Bitty that would be alright, for allowing Bitty to believe that he’d have his back, and then for failing to do so. 

Jack can see Bitty flinch almost imperceptibly. “No, I-- I mean, they said I’d be okay if I just rested. I promise it won’t mess with next year.” 

Jack’s heart clenches. _Bitty thinks I’m upset with him. He thinks all I care about is the game, and not him._ _Crisse_ _._ “Get out of your gear. It’s getting late and we have classes in the morning,” he says, aiming for concern, but it comes out all wrong again. 

 _Tabarnak._  

Bitty grabs his clothes out of his bag and heads to the showers, looking like a kicked puppy. Jack rests his elbows on his knees, running his hands through his hair, his head bowed. _Some captain you are, Jack. You let your teammate get checked, he’s got a concussion, and now you’re ordering him around._ He sits there, listening to the shower running, continuing his internal litany of self-flagellation, distantly aware that most of the rest of the team has already left. 

“Bits, you drowning in there?” he hears Shitty say over the din of the shower. The water shuts off, and Jack straightens up. Lardo has already packed up Bitty’s bag and taken care of his gear, and he sets about packing his own bag before Bitty emerges from the shower. He hangs his pads and stows his skates, then shoulders his bag and walks over to Bitty’s stall, where Bitty nearly falls over trying to shove his towel in his bag. He waits for Bitty to zip up the bag, then takes it from him and walks out of the locker room. Bitty’s not going back to his dorm tonight, not if Jack has anything to say about it. 

Jack waits outside as Shitty and Lardo escort Bitty out. Even next to the diminutive Lardo, Bitty looks small, fragile. Jack can’t stop his brain from replaying the check over and over again, in excruciating slow-motion. Frowning, he turns and leads the group back to the Haus. 

“Dorm’s back that way, folks,” he hears Bitty say several minutes later. “I know y’all are probably wanting to celebrate the win, but I think I am going to pass tonight. So, if you could just hand me my bag, I’ll get out of your hair and--” 

Jack whirls around, his worry rising in his throat like bile. He crowds into Bitty’s space, peering into his eyes for signs that the concussion is worse than the trainers thought. He’ll never forgive himself if Bitty sustains lasting damage from that check. “Don’t be stupid, Bittle. You aren’t going back to your dorm,” he snaps, worry lending an edge to the words that he wishes he could take back as soon as they leave his mouth. 

“But I’m tired,” Bitty says wearily. 

“We know,” Lardo says with a sad chuckle. 

“Allow me to translate, as I am well-versed in Jack: Bittle, my friend, my comrade on the ice, we aren’t about to let you head back to the dorm all by yourself. It is our solemn duty-- no, privilege to watch over you and make sure you don’t overextend yourself. We are bros and that’s what bros do,” Shitty says with mock solemnity. “Also Mama Bittle would probably kill us if we left you alone.” 

Lardo nods. “It’s true. I promised that you would call her in the morning.” 

The look on Bitty’s face is like an icicle through Jack’s chest. “Oh,” he says in a small voice. 

“Yeah, you are definitely not heading back to the dorm. Probably would have fallen over in a snowdrift on the way and then we’d have a frozen Bits to deal with,” Shitty says, trying to lighten the mood. Jack turns around and keeps walking, trusting that Shitty and Lardo will keep Bitty moving. 

They get back to the Haus, and Jack opens the door, heading straight for his room. He trusts that Lardo knows what the plan is, even though he never actually said. He’s the captain, and he’ll take responsibility for keeping watch over Bitty tonight. Bitty deserves so much more, but at least he can do this. 

He enters his bedroom, leaving the door open for Bitty, and shoves his bag under his bed. He puts Bitty’s bag next to his desk. He rummages for a spare t-shirt for Bitty to change into. He finds one and turns around to see Bitty is standing in the doorway, looking lost and confused. 

“Bittle,” he says, handing him the t-shirt. When Bitty takes it, still looking confused, Jack sighs. “Come on. Change and get into bed.” He heads into the bathroom to change. He fills a glass of water and grabs the trash can, in case Bitty gets sick; he’s been playing long enough to know that a knock to the head can cause severe nausea. When he returns to his room, Bitty has changed into the t-shirt, his boxer briefs peeking out from underneath. Before his brain can take that image in an inappropriate direction, Jack shakes his head to rid his mind of the thought. He sets the trash can next to the bed, and the glass of water on the bedside table. Bitty’s still not moving, so he pulls the blankets back and rests a hand on Bitty’s shoulder, guiding him into bed. After a beat, Bitty complies. 

“Can’t take anything for your head just yet, right?” Jack says as he tucks Bitty in. He almost loses Bitty’s soft “no” in the blankets. Jack turns off the light and gets into the bed on the other side. He can’t help but notice that Bitty’s curled up on his side, as close to the edge of the bed as possible, and guilt overwhelms him. _He must think I hate him._ _Crisse, je suis un imbécile_. He adjusts his pillow and sinks into the mattress, the tension of the game slowly seeping out, even as his anxiety and worry remain distressingly high. “Trash can’s there in case you need it,” he says softly. 

Bitty rolls over on to his back, still careful to maintain distance between himself and Jack. Jack pretends not to notice, trying to focus on wrestling his anxiety under control. He can feel tension radiating off of Bitty, and resists the urge to pull him into his arms. _Crisse_ _, where did that come from?_  

“I’m sorry. I know I really messed up. I should have been more aware of where Spencer was, but I didn’t keep my head up and I know that’s the dumbest thing to do, but then he was there and I-- I just hope I didn’t ruin things. Y’all deserve to go all the way,” Bitty blurts out suddenly.  

Jack squeezes his eyes shut in shame. He was right – Bitty was blaming himself for what happened. He rolls over; he can’t face Bitty. The words swirl around in his head _(_ _Bittle_ _, it’s not your fault; you did great, you did everything right; I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I should’ve had your back; you trusted me and I let you down)_ , but the only thing he can say is, “Bittle.” He sighs; he needs to do better. Bitty deserves better. “Bittle, that was--you don’t.” He punches his pillow in frustration and blows out his breath. Try again. “Nice assist, eh?” 

There’s no response, but Jack can sense the tension dissipating. He lets out a small sigh and feels the anxiety ebbing away slowly. He wants to say so much more, but he can hear Bitty’s breath evening out, and decides to let the moment stand. Maybe one day he’ll be able to tell Bitty what he’s thinking. For now, he lets his anxiety fade away and allows himself to drift off to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> French translations:
> 
> mon Dieu = my God  
> Crisse = Christ  
> Tabarnak= Fuck (literally, "tabernacle")  
> Crisse, je suis un imbécile = Christ, I'm a dumbass (literally, "fool")


End file.
